November the Fourth
by Villanelle EVE
Summary: V tries preparing for the Fifth. Fate isn't helping. Instead she brings him to address an issue he has unconsciously pushed aside all these years.


AN: I wrote this almost a year ago, (originally named _Another Night_), and it was one of the very first stories I had written for V for Vendetta. I edited and rewrote it, and decided to give this a shot.

**November the Fourth  
**

* * *

Prothero was on air again, proclaiming his daily bullshit for a brokenhearted England. The fingermen had already begun stalking the streets, abusing of the protection and secrecy of V's shadows; the damned curfew was in effect. And V, smiling smugly with his red, naked face, simply listened to the brute and only silently contradicted him. For once, just tonight, he felt free to be indifferent.

Tonight would be for Beauty.

He first eyed the gloves, black and sleek as always. How he enjoyed the familiarity of them, how tightly yet smoothly they hugged his hands, adoring their wearer. Then came the wig and the mask. The wig was never a concern, he secured it nonchalantly to his head. But the mask... it was never a matter of simply wearing it, that beautified face of another. First he stared at it, he acknowledged the face, the shadow, that concealed him to perfect him. Then he spent but a moment or two humbly thanking Mr. Fawkes. _Two men, one idea._ He repeated this small consolation to himself everyday, numerous times, and yet his hands still shook when he forced himself to strap and secure the handsome mask to his monstrous face. He shivered. It was over.

And the Night still waited.

He hummed, draping his enormous black cape on his back, fastening the faithful daggers to his belt just as he would any other night, and then, just like that, dressed in black and glamor and no vanity, with a quick charismatic swiping of his hat, he was beautiful again.

* * *

V could not help but grin like a clever fool, like Fawkes on his face, knowing the inevitable terror that awaited the poor Old Bailey. He laughed like a cynic, both fascinated and amused by the brilliance with which he had prepared what would tomorrow morning be considered a "demolition". Every explosive was carefully and precisely timed for the arrival of the Fifth. Every speaker of all the neighboring streets was set for Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. The fireworks, also set perfectly to the symphony, the lead of the event, had taken longer than he had hoped and yet- he chuckled- he had even managed to finish _those_ in time to fulfill the Bailey's destruction.

_Yes_, he could already see it... tomorrow morning... an island of historic rubble and falling dust, scarring the clean, empty streets of London. He quickened his pace in excitement, his cape flowing freely behind him, a shadow keeping up with its master. And yes, he could also see the grave and pitiful looks on the faces of the shaken people when they watch his "demolition" on the news, such distressful news indeed... tomorrow morning... tomorrow morning. He chuckled. Oh, he truly was a cynic! He turned another corner. And then, he could also see, to his great amusement, the frowns on_ their_ faces, their angry glares at his masterpiece, and Sutler's rage at everyone and every truth. And, unable to contain himself, V laughed. He laughed like the true maniac he was, laughed so hard he was sure his sides would split. His laughter bounced off the walls of the tunnels and echoed along the different passageways and reigned the underground. He thanked Fate he was alone. His laughter quickly ceased at the thought.

Tonight...

_No matter_, he thought, and smiled again, emerging from the tunnels.

Tonight would be for laughter.

* * *

_Can't I,_ he felt like asking, _Can't I share this with someone?_

The question was regretted the instant it was conceived. Fate was always a tease, a bit of a torment. A Fury he'd rather not wake.

He heard gentle humming. She was laughing. _With who, darling?_

He couldn't answer.

_Why? _she said.

He struggled to find a decent answer- no, excuse._ It's a revolution, a celebration._

_I'm here, love. Who else could you bring?_

V made no reply, instead he waited silently in shadow for a group of fingermen to pass by. His dagger grew impatient in his hand. The fingerman on the right would pass by so close to the wall, would pass so close to V, he would miss him by a mere inch, but not the silent blade. He would...

"Betcha Willy's gonna pick up another one of 'em whores, eh Willy?" said the man in the tweed coat and mustache. "Never miss a night, do ya?" He smiled.

V smirked. They never change.

"Right you are, mate." smiled Willy, who walked in between his two companions. "And what about you, James? Still waitin' on that sleazy woman o' yours?"

"Suzie?" said the man on his right. "Yeah, but I tell ya she's worth it, mate." He grinned a sick and happy grin at his friends.

He hated them for their ignorance, their stupidity. And yet, he loved how human and childlike they could still be.

_I'm here, Love, _he heard again. _Who else could you bring?_

_Shut up! I wasn't serious._

"Ya know, I bet we'll find Suzie sneakin' around tonight," said the man in the tweed coat. "Yer on the lookout, aren't ya, James?"

"Gonna turn 'er in like ya said ya would every other night?" Willy laughed. "Maybe have a personal interrogation with her in her alley?"

"And then let us have a turn?" laughed the man in the tweed coat.

_Who could you bring?_

V saw the man named James laugh along with the rest of his friends and wondered how long it really takes for three god damned idiots, drunk with laughter equally barbaric to his own, to walk down this particularly short street, right into the shadow falling on the corner, right into the blade.

V listened to them, easily amused with their own scandalous and low characters, gasping for breath, then he glanced down, just a slight tilt of his face, to admire the anticipating dagger. If there was any weak beam of light to worship it, it would have shined in deep crimson with pride and vile beauty. It grew impatient in his hand.

_I'm here, Love._

The fingermen had stopped laughing.

_Who could my poor little V bring to the Fifth?_

Their eyes were drawn to the shadows.

V heard gentle humming, Fate's calm and savage laugh.

They whispered, pointing to the shadow at the end of the street. V's throat became raw. Surely not?

_Who?_

"I see you there!"

_Who?_

* * *

Please review! All helpful criticism is welcome.


End file.
